Hot Mess and the Brazilian Wax

Apparently at some point, it was deemed sexy for your spouse to have a bald lady-area, similar to that of a child. Thanks a lot porn stars. Now if lucite, platform shoes become the fashion, that is where I will draw the line.

A few years ago, my husband had offered to pay for my first Brazilian at a nearby spa chain called Stephen’s. Stephen’s has an esthetician known by all my friends and pretty much everyone on the East side for her expertise in brow-shaping. She just happens to also do all my friend’s Brazilian’s who are brave enough to conquer the bush.

Once at Stephen’s, an Indian woman appeared at the hall that led to the spa. She was maybe late 40’s and very stout. Her smile was kind enough but you could tell she meant business. To her, we were just broken laptops and she was the Geek Squad tech going through and fixing each one of them.

“Hot Mess?” She called out in a thick accent. I raised my hand (What is this? Middle school?), stood up and walked over.

“Hello, my name is Anaya,” she said smiling.

“Hi, my name is Hot Mess.” Do you shake hands with your tech? Has she washed her hands since the last person? Wait, she probably wears gloves.

“Follow me.” She said and turned around.

“Ok. I’m really nervo….” I began to say as I didn’t have time to finish as we abruptly stopped, just 5′ later in the hallway, in front of a door. I always mistaken this door as a broom closet but obviously this was her room of torture.

Now I’m not one to comment on the layout of salons or spas but given I’m about to strip down and have my pubic hair ripped from my delicate skin with hot wax, I would expect the room to maybe be in the back. You know, past the hair washing area. Instead, the waxing room was off the main corridor that every single client walks by and within earshot of the waiting room.

“Take off your pants, put this over you and I’ll be back in 5 minutes.” She instructed, handing me a paper cover-up.

The Torture Began

The realization of what I was about to do began to really kick in. I had washed down 2 Ibuprofen with a glass of wine, 30 minutes prior in an effort to ease the pain but clearly I should have washed down 2 valium. But I doubt my doctor would prescribe valium just for a Brazilian wax.

As promised she came in 5 minutes later and began her prep. I began to do what I normally do with an impending, uncomfortable procedure: crack jokes, giggle and unapologetically describe what a baby I am.

“I drank wine before I came.” I blurted out. “Do people ever come in here drunk to calm the nerves?”

“Not that I am aware of.” She responded.

“I should have drank an 8 gallon drum of wine. Can I scream out Kelly Clarkson when you rip the hair off?”

“If you want to. Now lay down and take deep breaths.”

“Oh my God, oh my God. I don’t know if I want to do this.” I said as I felt the warm wax slowly being spread over an area that has never seen trauma, other than childbirth. I felt her smooth the tape over the now sticky area.

“Deep breath, ready?”

And before I had time to respond, she ripped it off!

“Holy fuck!” I screamed, for the entire city to hear. “Oh my God, oh my God! I’m so sorry I cursed.” I was worried she was a deeply religious woman and took offense at my indiscretion.

I can confidently say that just under childbirth, a Brazilian wax is a close 2nd in the pain factor. Why they don’t offer epidurals for Brazilians is beyond me. For the first time in my life, I saw stars.

She repeated the process on the other side. By now I downgraded my scream to a, “Holy shit!” It’s as if I couldn’t control my mouth.

Next, and to my surprise she displays tweezers and began to meticulously pluck stray hairs. After about 4, I had enough.

“You know what? That’s good. I’ll just do the rest when I get home.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, laying the tweezers on the table. “Flip over then, I will do your backside.”

“Come again?” I asked shocked, wanting to suck my thumb. How could this be? Wouldn’t that be more painful?

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